


The Soft Hearts of Women

by orphan_account



Series: A Change of Plan [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: I'm so sorry, it wouldn't leave me alone, like the most effed up idea I have ever had for a oneshot, the muse made me do it, tragically tragical and stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Stark loses their head in the name of Joffrey Baratheon’s justice, but it is not Eddard Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soft Hearts of Women

The sun beat down ruthlessly overhead in one final rebellion against the long winter encroaching on them. The crowd which had gathered at their feet was as hot and sweaty as she herself was, although she tried not to let it show. _A lady does not sweat, nor smell of dirt and grime._ Sansa stood stiffly atop the steps alongside the royal family and their guards, her eyes following the motions of a man weaving through the crowd of jeering commonfolk, tall and still strong despite the unusually sunken-in hollows in his cheeks. Her heart faltered at the sight, and she turned her gaze resolutely to the direction of the young crowned King, standing imperiously in his finest clothes.

Sansa found herself smiling in relief at the sight of her betrothed, smiling in the comforting thought that though things had gone terribly wrong, it would be made right after all. Her father would confess his sins, and repent, and her lovely King would make her his bride and all this nonsense could be put in the past. After her father was released and Arya found safe, all could be forgiven, all could be fixed. Her father had made a mistake from grief in accusing the Queen of such things, but it could be forgiven, it could be made right with time and patience.

_Joffrey was so utterly handsome._

Her prince smiled at her with what Sansa prayed was reassurance but felt far too spiteful for her taste. _Nothing which cannot be fixed,_ she reminded herself carefully, and then amended. _Nothing which cannot be ignored._

When the great Lord Eddard Stark climbed onto the steps, he turned without another word to the King or the Queen Regent and instead addressed the crowd of calculating commoners, who watched him in disdain and superstition. Her father spoke to them as though they weren't even there, loud and strong despite the way his shoulders were hunched and his arms hung limp as though he’d not eaten in days. Sansa’s heart gave a terrible wrench at the sight—her father was never meant to be a frail man, never. She would see to it that he was sent safe to the Wall, at least. Winterfell, if possible. Perhaps he could come visit Winterfell the way her Uncle Benjen did on the rare occasion. She thought that being a Watcher on the Wall would suit him well, even if being Lord and Warden in the north suited him far better.

 _Any place which keeps you alive is better than one which wishes you dead,_ Sansa reminded herself calmly, placating her fear for her father’s happiness. _First you must see him safe. Then we shall see what is to be done for his happiness._ Perhaps when she was wed to Joffrey, Sansa could convince him to release her father of his vows to the Night’s Watch. Her father was proud and honorable, and certainly no oath-breaker, but she thought he might even break a vow if it meant he could return home to his family.

When Ned Stark finished speaking, finished declaring himself a traitor and a fool and asserting Joffrey as the rightful king, he stopped and looked expectantly to the King himself, waiting for the young boy’s words. The crowd seemed unimpressed, but they were rarely anything else. Ned’s eyes sought his daughter’s and Sansa smiled reassuringly at him, nodding, pleased. He didn’t return the smile, his face taught with stress and, she did not doubt, self-loathing. Her father was, as she had claimed before, an honorable man. If he thought he was lying in professing himself a seeker of the throne, Sansa didn’t doubt it sat ill on his conscience, even if it would save his life.

Sansa turned to her betrothed and watched expectantly as her king rose to his feet, steady and with a swagger. Chin held high, he spoke to his own people as though they smelled foul, as though they were so far beneath him he couldn’t even bother trying to look. Cersei took his side, of course, as strangely bored and exquisitely beautiful as she always was. Sansa envied her in that moment more than ever before, envied her for her ability to hide behind Joffrey’s power and noble blood.

The crowd went silent as their King made to speak, dashing and bold and fearless. Sansa's heart lurched again, because there was no mistaking the vindictive and hard glint to his eyes. She wrung her hands under the shelter of the long draping sleeves of her dress.   

Joffrey’s mouth curled into a grim smile, utterly smug and all-knowing in his triumph. “My mother and my lady have both asked me to spare the life of this traitor. They would see him go north, north beyond the Wall where death may yet find him still. But they have the soft hearts of women, and your king is no such fool.”

Sansa felt as though her heart had fallen into her stomach, as though the ground had slid from under her feet. _He couldn’t mean…could he? No! I begged him! Father confessed—he did as he asked!_

But the young king continued with all the authority of the most important man in Westeros—and he was, technically—and his new words brought even worse panic than before.

“My people, much as I would love to show you what justice looks like of a disgusting traitor"--here the crowd roared in approval--"this man is a Lord of the north, and his value is great. Sparing him might yet bring the dogs of Winterfell to their knees.” And then Joffrey was looking to her, to Sansa, and she thought she might faint or be ill before he had even spoken.

“But what good is an unflowered cunt? What good is a woman who cannot bear me children yet?” Joffrey’s smile was as cruel as ever, his eyes glinted hard in the sun. A pair of hands seized either of Sansa’s arms from behind her, and she sank to the ground slowly, down to her trembling knees in a daze of horror.

“Your Grace,” she tried to say, but the roar from the crowds was too loud, their approval so great. The title stuck to her mouth, refused to come out right. “Your Grace!”

Beside him, Sansa could see Cersei Lannister speaking urgently to her son's ear, eyes wide with something akin to urgency. It was like the Queen Regent was invisible. For Joffrey shouted, loudly and with confidence, “BRING ME SANSA STARK'S HEAD!”

And Sansa began to beg.

“Your Grace, please!” she sobbed, and found despite the cheering crowd that she wasn’t alone in her desperation. There on the other side of the stage was her father, her strong father who had beaten down two guards upon Joffrey's mad order, and lunged for her, his eyes wide with a sort of terror and desperation she had never seen in all her life. He was screaming, _screaming,_ for her, for the king to spare her, for someone to stop him. One of Joffrey’s guards finally overwhelmed Ned, though, and wrestled him to the ground so that his head still faced Sansa, so that he still saw everything which unfolded.

“Daddy!” Sansa cried out to the only man who would help her, the only one who could. “Daddy!” Weeping, she struggled as Janos Slynt kicked her feet out from under her and threw her bodily onto the block of wood. Her father was gone from her vision, but the sound of his voice was as loud as though it were the only one in the world.

Somehow, despite the wildly tragic circumstances, Sansa found herself praying. For what, she wasn’t certain. For her father, for her mother. For her brothers and sister and even Jon, who she had treated so poorly, and Septa Mordane, and her family’s direwolves— _oh Lady, forgive me…I’ll see you soon…_

Behind her she could hear Ilyn Payne unsheathe her father’s greatsword, Ice. She knew the sound well; how many times had she sat at her father’s feet and watched him work, watched him sharpen the blade and wipe it down and lecture Robb and Jon and Bran on the importance of maintaining your weapon, for it’s usefulness could be the difference between life and death.

_The difference between my life and death now._

“Please, Your Grace!” Ned was shouting over all of them, the effort of his struggle plain in his voice. “Please—my life for hers! Please, please! I beg you! She’s my daughter! _She’s my daughter!”_

Sansa looked over her shoulder to Joffrey, where he was still smiling cruelly, still utterly sure of himself. And just behind Joffrey was his dog, the Hound, whose face was oddly blank and unusually horrified, as though even he was surprised at his master’s actions.

She called to him even as Ser Ilyn Payne approached the block, the crowd falling silent in anticipation. Someone jerked Sansa hard into place, so that he might swing with ease.

_You wanted a knight to sweep you off your feet and marry you, you stupid girl. The only thing this knight will do is take your head._

“Your Grace!” Sansa sobbed, tears spilling over freely. Cersei, the Golden Queen, was watching with an unfathomable expression of pity and hate. The Hound looked like someone had ripped a blade over his belly, true horror plain in his eyes, even the one which was impeded by the scarred flesh.

Ned was still shouting, still calling for her.

“No, please, no! I’m sorry! _Gods, I’m so sorry, please! Please!”_ His voice faltered with a grunt as though he had been kicked, and Sansa cried more.

_Father. Mother. Robb. Bran. Rickon. Arya. Jon. Lady. Jeyne. I miss you. I don’t want to leave you._

There was a hush over the crowd, and even her father’s weeping seemed to soften with it, though she still heard him pleading, quietly but no less urgently. _My life for hers, please. My girl, my daughter… Please…_

Sansa looked up at the last second and saw the tall statue in the center of the crowd, saw the man holding a filthy looking urchin, a young girl with wide eyes and dark hair…

 _Arya. Arya is safe._ Sansa let herself feel relief for only a second, just that second… The man turned her away as the high, light whistle of a blade slicing through nothingness pierced the air, and Sansa knew well enough to tell that Ilyn had lifted the sword high, the slab of steel her father had carried and swore to use to defend her, swore to protect her with it…

 _I don’t want to die._ The thought was full of clarity and understanding, clearer than anything else Sansa had ever felt in her entire life. _I don’t want to die._

_Father. Mother. Robb. Bran. Rickon. Arya. I miss you. I don’t want to_

**Author's Note:**

> Honest to God, I haven't a clue where this came from. I just know that the idea had stuck with me for months--literally months--and I finally put metaphorical pen to paper and voila! 
> 
> I'm kind of tempted to do another chapter with the reactions of the Stark household, because I'm feeling morbid like that, but I'm also almost done the next chapter of my other fics, so... Meh. We'll see. I've learned to just accept that my muse has no trouble leaping from story to story, leaving old, half-pursued fics abandoned in the ditches without care (but I am updating blood thicker than water very soon). Just going with the flow now...
> 
> Anyways thanks for reading! Oh, if anyone wishes to pursue this whacko idea of mine, feel free. It's just fanfiction. Plus I kinda-sorta-really want someone with more skill to try and do their own take on it ;) 
> 
> Ciao for now darlings,  
> Miss Mallora


End file.
